#corgi's writing

[pallysuune]

Summery: You were unfortunate enough to catch the eye of Jago Sevatarion. By some stroke of luck, you were able to slip away from him. There's only one thing you forgot to take into account - the Captain's Raven still haunts the ship.

Pairing: None really? Sevatar/fem!Reader/Rushal eventually.

Warnings: Night Lords are just a warning all their own. Especially Sev and Rushal. Not much else here.

A/N: No smut here, but maybe I'll make a second part with it, if people would like one.

You had always heard such horrible rumors about what the Night Lord's did to their serfs. You had done the best you could to keep your head down and desperately tried to be as uninteresting as possible. You were human. You were disposable. Worse than that, some of the Night Lords enjoyed hurting humans, and would use any excuse to relieve a serf of their position to use as a toy.

But you'd messed up. After a long, frustrating day, you'd snapped to one of the other humans about what you would do to one of the more rude Astartes if you 'got your hands on them'.

You were scrubbing the floor and didn't see the man you were talking to go pale. Didn't see someone looming behind you.

"Is that so?"

You'd frozen at the sound of that impossibly deep rasp. Your heart stopped. You thought you were going to die, right then and there. You didn't need to look up to know who it was.

And you didn't look up, you just pivoted toward him, pressing your forehead to the ground. "M- my lord, forgive me, I-" you gasped, your voice wavering with dear.

"Save it," Sevatar dismissed your words. "Look at me."

You couldn't bring yourself to look up. Your heart was racing too fast, the world darkened at the edges of your vision. It was only when he shifted impatiently, when you heard that slight squeak of the pneumatics of his armor, that you moved, jerking your head up so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

You looked up at Jago Sevatarion, your heart in your throat. He looked back down at you, impassive and apparently unconcerned with your panic. He studied you a moment longer, then his lips twisted into a smirk.

"Come to my rooms after the serf's final meal tonight," he said. And before you could say anything, he turned and walked away.

Oh.

Oh, you were so dead.

You looked back at the other serf who you had been speaking to, only to find them frantically washing the floor, ignoring you. Well, you couldn't blame him. It was every human for them self on a Night Lord ship. Which also meant you were on your own if you wanted to find a way to survive.

You had to run.

The serfs day was separated into times to work, times to eat, and times to sleep. There was a morning meal, and an evening meal. You decided to wait until the change between work and meal time to slip away when all the serfs were shuffling from one place to another. You slipped into a serf's corridor and then, from there, into the vents. You couldn't think of anywhere else to go. It wasn't a permanent solution, you knew, but you didn't know what else to do and you were panicking.

So you crawled through the vents until you found a dark little maintenance corridor. There, you pressed your back to the wall in a corner, pulled your legs up to your chest, and tucked your face into your knees.

You were scared and alone, in the dark. It all weighed down on you. All you could do was close your eyes and cry.

How long you stayed like that, you had no idea.

There was the faintest sound just in front of you. Your head snapped up and your heart stopped.

He looked like a ghost, crouched just in front of you. An Astartes without any armor on, dressed only in black linen pants and shirt. Long, messy black hair framed scarred, paper white face. The heaviest scarring was around his mouth and lips. His eyes were pure black from corner to corner as he looked at you.

You'd forgotten about him. He was so rarely seen.

The Raven.

Sevatar's Raven.

Tears welled in your eyes immediately. "Please," you whispered.

He just looked at you, studying you silently for a long moment. Then he raised a hand, making a complicated series of signs you didn't understand. You shook your head, tears slipping silently down your cheek.

"I don't understand..."

Silently, he shifted closer to you. It was impressive that he could fit in the maintenance tunnel at all, let alone move so smoothly and so quietly. You realized with a little spike of horror that the sound you heard before, the one that had alerted you to his presence at all, must have been intentional.

He stopped just in front of you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body against your legs.

"Please," you whispered again. You squeezed your eyes shut, more tears spilling out. "Please don't take me to him. Just- just forget you saw me. Please."

A large, calloused finger traced the curve of your cheek, not wiping the tear away as much as following it, trailing it down your skin. Your breath hitched in a rough sob. He cupped your cheek. His hand was large and warm, and despite the well-worn hardness of his skin, he was gentle when he touched you. As if you were glass.

"Please?" You whimpered, trying one last time, as your eyes fluttered open to look up at him.

He met your gaze with his, and slowly, so slowly, shook his head.

Your heart fell.

[swordofthreekings]

.

Clarus tried to stop him from going. He isn’t sure why. Things are going fine, he muses as he looks down at the body of the giant snake lying in the water. Water that shouldn’t have been that deep, but is nearly up to his knees. He hates being short. 

Without a second thought for the snake, or the undead warriors that try to stop him, he continues on his way. Voices whisper at him from nowhere, the souls of the dead. They tell him to go back, that he isn’t the Shield, that he isn’t worthy. He grits his teeth and ignores them. Fuck them! He’ll show them worthy. 

At the end of the path, he finds a stone-filled doorway, sealed by a sword bound with ropes and all kinds of strange writings he doesn’t recognize. He reaches for the sword, pulling it from the ground and it breaks into colorful light as the stones shifted away. 

“Turn back. You don’t belong here.”

Cor ignores them. He steps inside and sees the form of some kind of monster or daemon in the flickering light of fires in the braziers around the stone room. The thing looms over him, a twisting shape in robes. Cor grips his katana and dives in. 

It isn’t a long fight, but it isn’t as easy as the other things there. The adrenaline rushes through his veins, exhilarating. He feels alive. He knew he could do this. 

He turns to approach the shrine at the side of the room. A blue fire burns in it. The power of the souls here. He’s beaten the trial- 

But as he reaches out, the fire burns him instead. 

“You are not a Shield.”

He clenches his fist and grits his teeth. He will prove he’s just as good as any Shield. He has to. He’ll show them all - the spirits, the Blademaster, his friends, even the King - that he doesn’t need their power to do this. He marches past the shrine to continue. 

The dead are restless there. Cor cuts his way through them, winding through the canyon. The second trial is a beast of wings and fire that attacks him on a worn bridge, with  the river far below. That one is a bit tricky. A good fight. He enjoys it, actually. There is something about fighting that had always felt right to him, and finding the weak points of a strong enemy was rewarding in a way few things were. Over the years he had been fighting in the war, it has dimmed from a brightly victorious feeling to one that was more grimly satisfied, but it was still there, after everything. 

Once more, the spirits of the shrine deny him, and he keeps walking. 

The path winds into the rocks and along the side of the canyon, sometimes stone, sometimes rickety wooden walkways. He doesn’t have the patience to spend any time looking at the sights around him, he just keeps going. Single minded. 

The third trial isn’t as satisfying, and when the lumbering mass of armor fell, Cor doesn’t even bother to stop at the shrine. He just walks right past it. 

There is nothing between him and the Blademaster now. 

.

He was in no way prepared for it. 

And it takes him far, far too long to realize that. 

“You  have failed the trial.”

His breath is hard enough to feel like fire in his lungs. He aches all over. Bleeds from several small cuts. Bleeds from ones that weren’t so small, too. He can’t find those weak points he’s so proud of anymore. Not on the Blademaster. He sees through the obvious bait ones, sure, but he can’t find the real ones. He can’t get a real  hit in. 

He’s going to die there. 

It’s a dawning realization in the back of his mind as he ducks back, loose rocks making his usual light steps unsteady. He doesn’t want to die. He has so few choices, he throws himself back in, the blade longer than his own small frame sweeping, whistling through the air. He gets backhanded, and only a quick yank on the blade intercepts some of the hit with the hilt. He goes flying back all the same. He hits the rock wall hard, and he’s sure he feels something crack in his side. Fuck it hurts. He tastes blood and realizes he’s bitten his tongue. 

He staggers to his feet again, the tip of the Genji blade drags along the ground. It takes him a second to find his balance, but as soon as he does, he throws himself in again. He ducks under an attack, reverses his momentum, swings his sword high, then around. 

There! An opening!

He takes half a second to brace himself, jumps, and swings the sword down as hard as he can. The feeling of cutting through something vibrates under his hands. And then it’s lodged into something. Cor pulls, and it takes him as second to realize what’s happened. 

His sword cut off the Blademaster’s arm. There’s no blood, no bone beneath the shorn armor. The arm lies on the ground. His sword’s swing had carried it into the side of Gilgamesh’s chest, cutting into the armor there, but it did not cut through. It was lodged there. Cor throws his weight into trying to pull it out, but it doesn’t work. 

A gauntleted hand closes over his own. Gilgamesh has released his own sword, and grabs on to the sword over top of Cor’s hand. His grip tightens, and Cor feels the bones in his hand grinding. It hurts. He panics and tries to let go of his sword, to pull his hand back, but the grip tightens even more. It’s no longer a grinding, there are several cracks. Cor screams before he can stop himself. The hand releases, and his own falls from his sword. Gilgamesh pushes him away and he trips, landing sprawled on his back. He cradles his bleeding hand to his chest. He’s shaking. 

“Your hubris has led you here, but you are not worthy of my power. Yours is not the path of a Shield.” 

Panting, shaking, he twists. It hurts so much to move, but he has to. He has to do something. 

“You have failed.”

He knows what happens to those who fail. 

He’s really going to die there. 

For the briefest second, his eyes flick to the stone ‘door’ he had come through. It was open. He can’t remember if it was before, but it is now, and that’s enough. If he can just maneuver that way a little more, maybe he can make a break for it. He doesn’t dare turn away from the Blademaster, who’s now making a patient advance toward him. 

At best, he can try to get away, at worst, he can at least die trying. 

There are plenty of swords around. He finds some Lucian broadsword. Too big for him. But he doesn’t have time to be picky. The Blademaster is still approaching. Cor grabs the sword with his left hand. He doesn’t know if he can use his left hand as well as his right, but he’s about to find out. 

He drags himself to his feet, takes a second to steady himself, and then lunges, sword first. The sword is batted out of his hand. A hand closes around his throat. A hand that shouldn’t be there. Ghostly magic holds him by the neck and pulls him off the ground. He scrabbles at it with both hands, too panicked to pay much mind to the pain in his broken hand. He’s lifted up until he’s eye to eye with the Blademaster. 

Gilgamesh says nothing. He just looks at Cor for a moment, stoic, those red eyes boring into him as he struggles, chokes and claws at the impossible hand. 

The next thing he knows, he’s flying through the air. He hits the ground with a jolt of pain, and rolls. Each time his left side touches the ground, there’s more pain from his broken ribs. A rock brings his tumbling to an end. 

He lays on his side, breathing hard, and realizes it very slowly. 

He’s outside the trial chamber. 

He’s lying on the cliff edge just outside the chamber, rocks at the edge of the landing had kept him from just tumbling right off. The ‘door’ of rock is already closing, ropes winding out to wrap around the katana that sealed the door once more. 

Had… Had Gilgamesh…?

He’d been tossed out on his face, a failure. 

But alive. 

…for now. 

.

Cor has no idea how long he lays there, panting, hurting, but eventually he rouses himself. If he wants to continue living, he needs to get out of there. One last trial to prove he deserved to live? Or did the Blademaster just not care enough about seeing him dead personally, and decided to leave it to his warriors? Either way, he needs to take care of himself before he can get moving.  He shifts onto his back and tries to take stock of himself. 

At least one rib, if not more on his left side is broken. He can’t do anything about those right now. His right hand is broken. His neck is throbbing, and his left ankle does too. He can’t tell if the ankle is broken or just sprained. What else? There’s a deep gash in the meat of his thigh, another across his chest, from his sternum to his right side. There’s a more shallow cut down his arm, from shoulder to elbow, and any number of bleeding scrapes from being thrown around. 

Okay. Bleeding first. 

He reaches into that little pocket of magic granted to him through Regis. He’s got a first aid kit in there. Wes had handed it to him a long, long time ago and he’d shoved it in there and forgotten about it. Thank gods for that. Pulling it out makes his head spin, and a wave of nausea run through him. 

Cor forces himself to sit up, leaning back against the rock, pulling out gauze and bandages from the first aid kit, layering them over the cut on his chest. He tugs off his jacket, then his shirt, and uses his left hand and his teeth to rip the shirt into strips. He winds them around his chest and ties them, screaming through gritted teeth as it squeezes his broken ribs. He takes a second and then keeps going. He has to. 

He doesn’t want to die. 

He wraps up his chest, his thigh, his arm, his hand. It’s all very clumsy, but it’s as good as he could do now. When he’s done, he slumps back against the rock, panting, letting himself rest. He remembered seeing potions around the ruin. They were old, though. Would they still work? He’d give them a shot, he didn’t have much to lose. 

The entire time he’s resting there, he’s staring across the ledge at the door. At the sword binding it. He doesn’t even think about it as he drags himself to his feet, shuffling over to it. 

It’s just sitting there, almost innocently, despite what it hides behind it. Cor looks at it for a second, scowls, and then reaches out, grabbing it. 

He needs a sword, after all. 

It remains in place, stuck. Cor turns and leans all his weight into pulling, trying to drag it away with him as he takes one step, then another. It comes free abruptly enough to make him stumble, and he twists to look back. The door is still closed. The sword is in his hand. He feels a little bit of vindictive satisfaction. 

The only ‘fuck you’ he manages to give the Blademaster. 

It’ll keep anyone else from being dumb like he’s been, too. No more people need to die down here in this godsforsaken hole. It’s been enough. 

He takes the sword with him to a haven nearby, where he lets himself lay down, safe near the ever-burning fire. He wonders how they work. Who made them. Why did they put some here? It’s all rambling, half delirious thoughts. He’s exhausted and still bleeding. He knows he shouldn’t, but he lets himself fall asleep there. 

.

When he wakes up, whatever magic it is in the haven has done some work on him. His wounds are a little better. He feels less like he’s going to die, though that’s not saying much. He needs to get out. The longer he stays, the more chance he won’t make it out at all. 

He pulls himself to his feet and heads out along the rickety wooden catwalk, making his way back up. Down was definitely easier, he thinks sadly. He should have enjoyed going down while he had the chance.

He finds a potion. He’s got no idea how old the damn thing is. It could be bad for all he knows, but he’s got little to lose, so he takes it anyway, opens it and downs the whole thing in one gulp. It tastes horrible. He wrinkles his nose, and coughs, and that makes his chest and ribs hurt. But when he continues walking, he thinks he feels a little better. It may be a placebo effect, but he’s not going to argue with it. 

There is one small mercy in all of this - the undead warriors stay dead this time. They are a part of the trial, to test the mettle of the challenger. Since Cor has already failed, they don’t bother him. Unfortunately, they’re not the only thing there, and while he scrambles up the steep, rocky path back, he finds himself trying to creep close to walls so the more earthly inhabitants of the ruins don’t notice him. He’s not always successful, and his new sword gets a taste of action as they’re scrambling back through the trial. He has to stop to rest far more often than he’d like. His fight with Gilgamesh had taken hours, and then he’d lost more time to his dazed state, and then yet more to sleeping. At this point, he has no idea what day it even is any longer. His friends are probably thinking the worst has happened. 

All he can think is that he needs to get back to them. He’ll even endure whatever lecture Clarus has for him. 

No wonder no one gets out alive. Bastard’s so far down, people’ll die of boredom before they get in and out, he thinks petulantly at one point, then lets himself huff a little bit of a smile, imagining that being part of Gilgamesh’s reasoning. 

.

He thought the trek back had been bad enough, but now Cor realizes he has a big problem. 

He stands in the center of a chamber that the stream runs through, water up to his knees. It splits into two behind him, falling down the cliffs. Ahead of him is a steep incline, slick with water. He remembers slipping on it, and riding it down like a slide when he’d come in. And now he’s got no idea how he’s supposed to get up it again. 

Frustrated tears spring to his eyes. He’s so close. So fucking close! It’s not fair! He’s dragged himself this far only to be stuck!

He forces the tears back, stubborn. That is one thing that has survived the trials fully intact - his stubbornness. Even if it’s just to spite Gilgamesh, he will make it out of here alive. He will make it back to Regis and Clarus, and get back to Insomnia. He refuses to even consider any other outcome. He just has to figure this out somehow. 

He moves back to where the rivers split around dry ground, the path back down to the trial stretching down into the dark that way, sits, and turns back to glare at the river. He’s exhausted and thirsty and hungry, and he’s pretty sure he isn’t thinking straight, but he will figure this out. He will. 

The thirst is easy enough to take care of. The water’s quick moving, so it’s less likely to make him sick. There’s still the chance, of course, but, as with so many things right now, it’s one of the lesser of his worries at the moment. He cups water in his hand and drinks. Drinks and drinks until he’s finally satisfied with that, at least.  And then he looks back to the river. The rocks are slick, even where the stream isn’t flowing. He’ll need something to help him hold on. A blade, maybe. Pulling himself to his feet, he starts to search around. There’s an ax, surprisingly decent condition considering it had probably been down there for hundreds of years. He picks it up and tests it, swinging it hard into the rocks of the cavern. The strike vibrates through it and into him, jarring all his wounds. But the ax holds strong, and so he will, too. As he’s about to leave, he sees something else from the corner of his eyes. He kneels to look. 

A wakizashi. It’s the last thing he expects to see here. But here it is. The scabbard is covered in dirt, the wrappings on the handle need replaced but when he pulls it free, the blade is bright and sharp. Well made. It’s a shame to leave it here. He picks it up and wedges it into the waistband of his pants. Hopefully, he won’t lose it. 

Exhausted as he is, he doesn’t even think to put either of the new weapons he has into his armory. 

He pries a length of bandage off his chest instead. Dried blood keeps the gauze in place even without it. Which isn’t something he should be thankful for, but he is all the same. He ties the bandage to the top and bottom of the katana’s sheath, and hangs it over his shoulders. 

Ready as he’ll ever be, he faces the river. 

He makes his way slowly and carefully, stepping up the slick rocks alongside the river, digging the ax deep into the rocks and using it to pull himself up. The first time he slips, he’s certain it will pull free and he’s going to tumble down and be swept off the cliffs. But it doesn’t. It holds his weight and he scrambles upright again, ignoring the fresh scrapes to his legs as he does. It’s not the last time he slips, but he manages to make progress, slow and carefully. 

And when he reaches the top, he drops the ax and throws himself onto the ground, panting, trembling, and aching. The sound of the river lulls him to sleep. 

He has no idea how long later it is when he wakes up. It’s dark, but he’s in a cave, so there’s no surprise there. He’s almost there, he reminds himself, over and over, urging himself to his feet again. His thigh is bleeding again. His chest might be, too. Just standing up makes him feel dizzy, and he takes a second to steady himself. Breathe in. Breathe out. He’s alive. And he’s going to stay alive. 

.

It’s hours later when he stumbles out of the crack in the rock that leads down to the trial. It’s daytime. The light is harshly bright as he squints up into it. The air smells clearer. 

He’s made it out. Alive. 

“Take that,” he whispers into the air. He’s not sure if it’s directed at Gilgamesh, the trial as a whole, or himself. That part of him that had been so sure he’d die down there, that started whispering as he faced down Gilgamesh. 

He’d failed. He’s not fit to be Shield. But he’s still alive. And as long as he’s still alive, he can be of use. To his friends. To his kingdom. 

If he can’t be the King’s Shield, maybe he can be his Sword.

He keeps that thought in mind as he starts to shuffle off toward the nearest haven.

[bluerosefox]

Good Doggos Give Hope!

Cujo was, is a good boy both in life and in death.

He knows this. Everyone knows this.

So when Cujo notices his favorite half boy seemed more hurt than normal when he goes to see him, notices how stressed and on the verge of tears, notices the strain in his voice as he pretends to be okay as he pets Cujo's head. Cujo knows his favorite boy needs help.

Cujo is a good boy, and as he listens to his favorite boy and his friends talk about the GIW getting more deadly, how his parents inventions are becoming to much, how Vlad circling around his favorite boy even more often, how he's failing more classes again. Cujo decides his favorite boy needs helps.

But first Cujo needs to figure out how.

He needs help.

He needs... hope.

Hope to find help for his favorite boy.

'Everything will be okay!' A voice spoke to him, Cujo spooked yelped and flew higher than he already was and he boofed when he realized he was no longer alone... or on earth anymore, turns out he started floating up and away from earth when he started thinking of how to help his favorite boy.

Cujo, floating from both him being a ghost and from space, turned around to see... Oh! A fellow dog! Who glows blue! It has been a while since played with another dog!

He barked, tail wagging in greeting at the idea of meeting a new and fellow floating friend.

'You new friend. Need hope? I help!' The other dog voice echoed out as their tail wagged as well 'We play soon but first hope! I knows many who can help!'

Cujo barked back in excitement, yes, hope for his favorite boy is here!

[pallysuune]

Summery: Sevatar takes solace in his Raven when his psyker headaches grow to be too much. Literally.

Pairing: Sevatar/Rushal

Warnings: Smut, rough sex, blood, typical Sevatar and Rushal stuff.

A/N: I love these two toxic boys. Don't judge me.

Rushal knows the headaches are getting to be too bad when Sevatar grabs him and slams him too hard against the wall, forcing his mouth to slot over his. He doesn't blame him for the violence, never. Half their relationship is violence. It's what they're both made for, something they'll never get away from. But Sevatar has eased toward him with time, and so these moments stand out all the more. How Sevatar pressed against him like he's trying to drown in him. Like he needs him to survive.

It's just a balm, he knows. A salve. An attempt to drive away the pain that splits apart his mind from the inside out. He can't actually save Sevatar from what is slowly killing him, though he wished he could. This is the best he could do.

He relaxes pliantly under Sevatar's hands as the Captain kisses him, tongue stealing into his mouth, tracing the scars along the inside of his cheek, caressing the stump of his tongue. Rushal lets out a low sound, more a rumble in the air between them than an actual noise. Sevatar's fingers dig hard into his shoulders.

Hands scramble at his tunic. His own find purchase in Sevatar's shirt. Neither of them have much regard for the fabric in moments like this. The sound of it ripping is drowned out by a deeper groan from the Raven as Sevatar's hand palms him roughly through his pants.

The metallic scent of blood registers in his mind slowly. There's something wet on his lips. He rears his head back. Sevatar is looking up at him, tension at the corner of his eyes. His nose is bleeding. The red stands out starkly against his skin.

Rushal raises a hand toward his face.

“Leave it,” Sevatar barks, pushing forward to kiss him again. Desperate, barely contained. He rakes red welts across Rushal's chest, nails catching on scars. Small beads of blood rise to the surface of his skin in their wake. Rushal hisses, but doesn't try to stop him.

In a whirlwind of motion, the rest of his clothes are torn away, and he's turned to face the wall, pressed up against it by a heavy forearm against the back of his neck. He splays his hands across the cold plasteel and closes his eyes. Spit-slick fingers press to - and into - his ass. He lets a shapeless groan slip past his lips, his eyes slipping closed.

Sevatar does not allow him long, but Rushal doesn't mind. The burn as Sevatar finally pulls his fingers out and sheaths himself in him is familiar, almost welcome. A hand grips his hip, nails digging in roughly, leaving crescent shapes in his skin. The other arm is still laying across the back of his neck. Sevatar holds him in place and fucks him roughly.

And fuck, it feels good.

He's unbearably hard himself. He slips a hand down, curling his fingers around his length. Sevatar does not stop him. He's growling like something wild behind him, lost in it all, his only anchor the feeling of Rushal's body beneath his.

Rushal fucks his palm in the same rhythm as the buck of Sevatar's hips. He feels something hot drip onto his back. It rolls down his back slowly. Blood from Sevatar's nose. The feeling of it slowly running down the taut muscles of his back sends a shiver rushing up his spine.

It isn't long until Sevatar slams his hips against his ass, burying himself in him as he comes, cock pulsing as he fills him. He growls, feral and dark, before slowly relaxing. He slumps, his forehead resting against Rushal's back. He can feel the tickle of Sevatar's hair against his skin.

He has the honor of hearing words no one else likely ever would from the Captain as Sevatar whispers against him.

“I'm sorry.”

If the act itself was reminiscent of the darker time directly after his torture, that feeling is broken by just those two words. Rushal reaches back, tapping Sevatar's hips lightly. He gets the hint and draws back, slipping out of Rushal.

The Raven doesn't bother to finish himself. It isn't about him at the moment. Instead, he takes a ripped piece of his shirt and unceremoniously cleans himself up, grabbing another and moving to where Sevatar has slumped down onto his bed, sitting casually across it with his back propped against the wall. Using the same soiled rag, Rushal cleans him, before tossing it away. With the second, clean tatter of cloth, he leans close and gently wipes the blood from Sevatar's face. Already, the flow has become sluggish. It will stop soon enough.

Sevatar's closed eyes flickered slightly open when Rushal cleans his face, looking over at him with a grimace, before closing again. The corners of his eyes are still pinched from pain, but it seems to be fading.

With them both cleaned up, Rushal pulls Sevatar down to the bed. It takes a moment for them both to arrange themselves comfortably, in a tangle of muscular limbs and heavy bodies.

The door is locked. It is just the two of them in the darkness of Sevatar's quarters. Safe in a way neither wants to think of too hard. It takes a long time for Sevatar to finally sleep. Rushal knows from experience he won't sleep long. He can only hope the headache has eased the rest of the way by the time he wakes up.

[turbulenthandholding]

12 more hours in the car today (including so many stops OMG) and I drove the whole stupid way (though...I kept control of the music the whole time so it was worth it 😂) BUT BUT BUT:

The next chapter for Gapers Delay has been (mostly) plotted (plus @anxietycroissant made magic for a future chapter too!!)

Epilogue part 2 for All This Nothing is a bit more figured out in my head

I plotted out a whole, whole bunch of Running Just In Case

And last night when I was awake at 3am I started plotting out another soul meets body extra

So it was a very productive day!

[ukulelekatie]

when you accidentally type 'corgially' instead of 'cordially'

[pallysuune]

Summery: Cleaning armor turns into a sweet little moment between you and a certain Raven.

Pairing: Alastor Rushal/Reader

Warnings: For once, none. Amazing!

A/N: It's meant to be a short continuation of my Sev/Reader/Rushal series, which is usually a fem!reader, but since this one doesn't really reference any specifically gendered body parts, it could also be read as gender neutral.

You had settled into life as Sevatar's personal serf well enough. It wasn't a terribly difficult job. The Captain was a largely independent man who preferred to do much of the important work himself. You weren't allowed to touch his weapons. You cleaned his armor and the 'decorations' on it, but he tanned any new skin himself. Largely, your job consisted of laundry, cleaning, and running errands for him. Picking up data slates and reports he wanted, taking things to his brothers, handling food and drink for him on the rare occasion he ate something more than just nutrient paste.

Rushal lingered around often. You assumed he had his own room somewhere, because he wasn't always there, but he was there often. A silent shadow just lingering around, or reading, or tending his weapons. Of course, you knew the Astartes had their own things to do. Training and the like, so it didn't surprise you that you would sometimes only see your master for a few hours a day.

What was more rare were the moments that Sevatar was gone, but Rushal was there.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, with one of Sevatar's heavy leg plates held on your lap as you scrubbed at a particularly stubborn piece of grime from it. Just across from you, Rushal was also sitting on the floor, nearly mirroring your actions as he cleaned his own armor. You watched him from the corner of your eye. When you'd first met him, you'd thought his appearance particularly gruesome, even for a Space Marine. But you'd gotten more used to it. You'd learned to look past the scars and take in more of him as a person. He was softer than Sevatar was. You hesitated to say 'sweeter' but the word did come to mind when dealing with him. Maybe it was a difference between how the Raven Guard he had abandoned dealt with their serfs versus what you were used to from the Night Lords.

Maybe that was what prompted you to speak up despite the fact that you didn't actually serve him. "Do you want me to do that?"

He lifts his head a little bit to look at you and then shook his head.

You frowned slightly, your brows knitting. "Why?"

He hesitated a moment, then reached over to take his pauldron from the pile of pieces of armor on the floor. He turned it, showing you the top of it. On the matte black surface was the scraps of a white shape, just barely visible still. A white raven, broken apart. He tapped it lightly.

"You... did that yourself?" you asked.

He nodded.

"And that's why you won't let me clean your armor?"

He nodded again.

Those two things didn't quite line up in your mind, you weren't sure what him breaking his old legion sigil and you not cleaning his armor had in common, but you didn't try to figure it out too hard. Space Marines were strange. You would probably never really understand. Instead, you just tip your head to the side slightly. "Alright. Well. If I can ever help, you can just let me know..."

His expression softened slightly. He set the pauldron aside and smoothly shifted forward, up onto his hands and knees to close the distance between the two of you. One large hand came up to cup your cheek, turning your head toward him. His lips, rough and twisted, pressed against yours so very softly. Your heart skipped a beat.

It didn't last nearly long enough, in your opinion. All too soon, Rushal pulled away from you, his eyes lingering on your face. His hand still cradled his cheek. His roughly calloused thumb brushed the arch of your cheekbone lightly. And then he drew away, sitting back down and pulling his pauldron back into his lap. You were left just staring at him, as he went back to cleaning his armor.

Slowly, a small, warm smile crept across your lips. You looked back down toward Sevatar's armor, still in your lap, but it took a few moments before you actually started working again, committing the feeling of his lips against yours into your memory.

Still smiling, you got back to work, humming softly under your breath now.

[just-a-dinosaur-i-guess]

do what you want with me

The occupation that Ivan ended up in, ultimately, was being Lord Fyodor’s Head Chamberlain. It was a prestigious occupation indeed. Ivan was happy to have it, because of course he would be. He couldn’t remember the last time he was anything but happy! What a wonderful life he lived. Any hurt he could ignore in his constant joy, any negativity would never bother him! All thanks to Lord Fyodor. He didn’t know why his dear companion Pushkin didn’t accept the offer. - on ivan and joy

oneshot, 1094 words, ivan-centric, part of my post doa au

aka: ivan is blindly hopeful for 1kish words

[bunsandstuff]

1. Blood contract

To his ragged breast he placed a palm. Fingers splayed. The moment this desperate man's gaze snapped up it'd met that of a contempt. He wore plainly that what this rava offered fell below the price of what Armand required.

Everything indeed. (Cont. below)

Still he allowed Yukiya to continue. Uninterrupted even. He resumed the stiff stance with his hands graced upon the cane. His thumb rolled over the corvid's obsidian eye. Then to see the bow return ... the moment it did, the cane snapped up with a kick. The metal tipped end aimed to hit Yukiya's bowed chin.

"Foolish jack," he spat. "And selfish too. Did your research not teach you memories remain? Even in the aether? Your love will return -" he stepped forward, invaded the other's space, and pressed the hand of that cane into Yuki's chest. "With every memory you've ever made. He'll seek you out. And when he realizes what you've exchanged for his revival..." He left it to hang.

Deep chestnut pierced that single orb this veena possesed. The honest desire within. "But you are determined, even then, to exchange your life for this Augustine's." He stepped back, cane tapped on carpet, turned away to run a hand over chest as though to wipe away an unpleasant thought. "Your life, correct? For access to this library. You would give even that which the Twelve and then some consider most sacred of all?"

The veena hadn’t accounted for his company to be… so angered by his words. The oncoming cane hit it’s mark earning a wince and grunt from Yukiya. Still, even when struck his first move was not anger but confusion as the docile bun looked up to the other. “If it is selfish, then so be it! But how can you expect me to live another day with what I have done!?” He argued back, his free hand gripping the sheets beneath him as he resisted the urge to stand. “How could I…? In the place he should be?”

But he would say no more, the thought of it was more than breaking his heart, it ached inside it’s tired cage. It was an unhealable wound and judging by this young veena’s face right now it was still as fresh as the day it was made. “…My apologies, I did not mean to contradict you.”

He resigned himself to silence as he heard out the rest of what this ragged man had to say to him. It would seem despite the man warning him he was willing to allow him to move forward with his wish. Yukiya would give a deep nod as he answered, “Yes, without hesitation, I would give everything.” Again came his tired smile as he looked into the other’s eyes.

“Sir, to give my life for his sake would be nothing short of the only good deed I can do with this life I have. Augustine is a man that can change this world for the better. I however am one that could only take things out of it… If anyone deserves to be here, it is him. So please, I ask you, allow me this chance, with my life, to correct the sands of time. I have gil, medicine, connections, anything you desire I will make it so… so please.”

And with his pleas, his wish was granted… the room grew dark and out from it came a claw and a contract. Without hesitation the veena forged his name in blood.

Yukiya Aino

[eqan]

one day he’ll be shaped like a fucking dog

[ladynerdathomeinhyrule]

Working cozy next to corgis and Christmas trees 📚☕🐶🎄🌨️☃️

[aidanix]

do people only stick around the EW fandom solely for the sake of their AU and the fandom's personal interpretations of the characters nowadays or is it just me

[stars-of-kyber]

Wake Up Call

"The morning routine in the Sharma-Bridgerton household stopped being easy by the time the children outnumbered the adults.

______________________________________________________________

Just another normal —chaotic— morning at the Sharma-Bridgerton home."

And I'm back. It's starting to get repetitive, this family fluff thing, isn't it? Sorry, I don't plan on stopping.

No moodboard this time, unfortunately. Just some morning family chaos with the Sharma-Bridgertons with Mary being the little princess, Charlotte's a wild thing and Kate's kind freaking out about her children growing up.

I have to thank @ladystanbury and @harnitbee who are my absolute queens and helped me blab and pour this out. Also, my sister, who inspired Charlotte's sleep habits. Who'd known her heavy sleeping would ever bring anything positive? Thanks, Clara.

Who do you identify with the most in the mornings? I'm gonna say, I'm more like Ned. It takes a while for my soul to return to my body.

Happy reading! Hope you all like this.

[basicallyanotherwitchesthing]

John Carnell (editor) - New Writings in SF5 - Corgi - 1971

[koropukgoro]

Jet put Ein on Spike duty